The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.[27] Air――“_Two Lovely Black Eyes_.” Down at the House, in the days that have been, This grave sage you might often have seen, Harcourt and I, and the Chief between, But oh, what a surprise! I joined the Conservatives frank and free; Gladstone got angry right speedilee, All in a jiff to see G. J. G. Rat to the To-ries. _Chorus._――I join the To-ries? Oh, what a surprise! Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong To join the To-ries. When to resign Randolph thought it was best, The Chancellorship upon me was press’d. A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed. When oh, what a surprise! A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true, Less than a million, but what did I do? By a neat little dodge made it more than two! That opened their eyes! _Chorus._――Revenue on the rise! Oh, what a surprise! Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished; Loud cheered the To-ries! Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout? Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt, But the Tories may leave me to fight it out; In that they’ll be wise. Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt; Penny off Income Tax――good bait, you bet, Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get _That_ little surprise. _Chorus._――Long it has been on the rise. Ah! what a surprise! Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong? This _is_ penny-wise! Working men’s ’baccy tax――give that a wipe, Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe Friend of the “Masses,” put _that_ in your pipe,―― Ain’t that a surprise? Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art. Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart. ’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?――for a start, With my new allies. _Chorus_.――Give ’em a fall, not a rise! Oh! what a surprise! As for Retrenchment――well that in the sweetest Of “sweet By-and Byes!” _Punch._ April 30, 1887. ――――:o:―――― UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN. _Gipsy Glee._ The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wildfire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c.